“I suppose it does,” answered Deulin, looking guilelessly at Netty.
He took his leave and continued his way down-stairs. Out in the Krakowski Faubourg the sun was shining brightly and the world was already astir, while the shops were opening and buyers already hurrying home from the morning markets. It is a broad street, with palaces and churches on either side. Every palace has its story; two of them were confiscated by the Russian government because a bomb, which was thrown from the pavement, might possibly have come from one of the windows. Every church has rung to the strains of the forbidden Polish hymn—“At Thy altar we raise our prayer; deign to restore us, O Lord, our free country.” Into almost all of them the soldiers have forced their way to make arrests.
Paul Deulin walked slowly up the faubourg towards the new town. The clocks were striking the hour. He took off his hat, and gave a little sigh of enjoyment of the fresh air and bright sun.
“Just Heaven, forgive me!” he said, with upturned eyes. “I have already told several lies, and it is only eight o'clock. I wonder whether I shall find Cartoner out of bed?”
He walked on in a leisurely way, brushing past Jew and Gentile, gay Cossack officers, and that dull Polish peasant who has assuredly lived through greater persecution than any other class of men. He turned to the right up a broad street and then to the left into a narrower, quieter thoroughfare, called the Jasna. The houses in the Jasna are mostly large, with court-yards, where a few trees struggle for existence. They are let out in flats, or in even smaller apartments, where quiet people live—professors, lawyers, and other persons, who have an interest within themselves and are not dependent on the passer-by for entertainment.
Into one of these large houses Deulin turned, and gave his destination to the Russian doorkeeper as he passed the lodge. This was the second floor, and the door was opened by a quick-mannered man, to whom the Frenchman nodded familiarly.
“Is he up yet?” he inquired, and called the man by his Christian name.
“This hour, monsieur,” replied the servant, leading the way along a narrow corridor. He opened a door, and stood aside for Deulin to pass into a comfortably furnished room, where Cartoner was seated at a writing-table.
“Good-morning,” said the Frenchman. As he passed the table he took up a book and went towards the window, where he sat down in a deep arm-chair. “Don't let me disturb you,” he continued. “Finish what you are doing.”
“News?” inquired Cartoner, laying aside his pen. He looked at Deulin gravely beneath his thoughtful brows. They were marvellously dissimilar—these friends.